


Contentment (Tastes Like an Americano with Cream)

by red0aktree



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Author Bellamy, Barista Murphy, Canonical Character Death, Flirting, Getting Together, Humor, M/M, Minor Character Death, Texting, Well technically really awkward flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 02:59:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4689812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red0aktree/pseuds/red0aktree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first coffee Bellamy orders in Northside Cafe is a 16 oz Americano with cream, but no sugar.</p><p>Murphy doesn’t take much notice of Bellamy at first. He has plenty of other customers to attend to, and besides, Bellamy doesn’t seem that interesting at first glance. He’s wearing a Harvard Law hoodie and Murphy snorts, because while technically it’s a possibility that Bellamy is a Harvard graduate, he doesn’t seem the type. Besides, Murphy just likes to be cynical. Bellamy’s hair is a curly mess, and he blinks bleary eyed at Murphy as he passes him his debit card and takes a seat somewhere in the cafe.</p><p>Murphy doesn’t even notice where he sits, or how long he stays.</p><p>-</p><p>Featuring: Grumpy Barista Murphy, Exhausted Author Bellamy, a sandwich shop, misreading clocks, and a caffeine addiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contentment (Tastes Like an Americano with Cream)

**Author's Note:**

> Now with lovely [fanart](http://lynch-pin.tumblr.com/post/132896637582/tiny-comic-strip-inspired-by-red-0ak-trees-fic)!

The first coffee Bellamy orders in Northside Cafe is a 16 oz Americano with cream, but no sugar.

Murphy doesn’t take much notice of Bellamy at first. He has plenty of other customers to attend to, and besides, Bellamy doesn’t seem that interesting at first glance. He’s wearing a Harvard Law hoodie and Murphy snorts, because while technically it’s a _possibility_ that Bellamy is a Harvard graduate, he doesn’t seem the type. Besides, Murphy just likes to be cynical. Bellamy’s hair is a curly mess, and he blinks bleary eyed at Murphy as he passes him his debit card and takes a seat somewhere in the cafe.

Murphy doesn’t even notice where he sits, or how long he stays.

-

Bellamy is back the next day, this time with a laptop bag slung over his shoulder. Once again, Murphy takes his order without so much as a smile and passes him his Americano without any pleasantries.

Bellamy takes a seat at the corner table, and Murphy chats with Monroe, who is the only other person working. Bellamy and Murphy take no notice of each other.

-

It’s on the fifth consecutive day that Bellamy appears in the cafe that Murphy decides he better start paying attention to the disheveled looking customer. At this point, he’s probably considered a regular. Murphy draws the familiar, swooping ‘B’ on Bellamy’s cup and says, “Americano with cream?”

Bellamy seems surprised at this. He stares at the smaller man, who wears wide rimmed glasses that somehow juxtapose the smattering of dark ink along his arms and neck. He wears a soft looking beanie and worn jeans, but scowls like he’s seeing something unpleasant. Bellamy wrinkles his nose.

“Uh, yeah, thanks.”

Murphy only grunts in response and rings up the order.

-

Sometime in the second week Murphy calls out, “Blake,” because that’s what he does every day, and Bellamy lingers a bit longer than usual at the counter. Murphy raises an eyebrow at him, watching him shuffle his feet a bit, clutching his paper cup.

“My name is actually Bellamy,” he explains after an uncomfortable amount of time.

“Look, dude, you told me the name on the order was Blake. That’s not my fault.”

“No, I know,” Bellamy says quickly. “I tell people it’s Blake because then I know they won’t misspell it. Bellamy is kind of,” he shrugs one shoulder, “but I just figured, since I’m here every day, I’d tell you my first name.”

Murphy regards him suspiciously. He’d watched the other man more closely since he’d made it a habit of lingering in Northside Cafe. Bellamy brings his laptop in every morning, and takes the corner table after ordering his Americano. Murphy thinks it must get boring, the same thing everyday.

Though, Murphy isn’t much better, honestly. He rarely leaves the cafe. When he first started working, he asked for extra shifts because nothing else in his life really interested him. At least at the cafe there were people to talk to, if he so desired, and tasks to keep his hands busy. After a while, he didn’t have to ask for the extra shifts anymore, they were scheduled to him from the start.

“Okay,” Murphy says finally. “Was that your way of asking my name, or what?”

“No,” Bellamy takes a step back. “I was just… Nevermind. Thanks for the coffee.”

Bellamy takes his seat. He’s wearing his Harvard Law sweater again. Murphy hates it.

-

The next day when Murphy passes Bellamy his Americano he says, “You can call me Murphy.”

“Murphy,” Bellamy repeats, a bit dumbstruck.

Murphy just nods once, and turns his attention to the next customer. Bellamy smiles.

-

The twenty-eighth coffee Bellamy orders in Northside Cafe is a red eye and it throws Murphy for a loop.

“R-red eye?” Murphy stutters. Bellamy smirks, because Murphy’s confused expression is vastly different from the cold, apathetic one he usually wears.

“Could use the extra caffeine today,” Bellamy explains.

“Couldn’t we all,” Murphy mumbles, and it’s the closest thing they’ve ever had to a friendly conversation.

Bellamy takes his seat and Murphy watches for longer than usual. Northside Cafe has it’s fair share of regular customers, but more often than not, the cafe is mostly empty. Today is one of those days. Murphy stands behind the counter alone. Monroe only works two days a week, and aside from her, Murphy is the only other barista. Likewise, Bellamy sits alone at his table. He is typing furiously today, and seems even less likely to interact with others than usual. Murphy watches him and wonders, not for the first time, what he’s working on.

He doesn’t ask, though, and Bellamy doesn’t offer.

-

After two days of ordering red eyes Bellamy goes back to Americanos. For some reason, Murphy is relieved.

-

“Your Harvard friend is asleep,” Monroe says one afternoon on Bellamy’s fifth week of patronage. Murphy raises his gaze from the latte he’s mixing and frowns at Bellamy’s table.

Bellamy is slumped forward, head pillowed on his arms. Today is a busy day, and having someone take up unnecessary space at one of the few tables they have isn’t exactly good for business. Murphy scowls and sets the latte in front of the woman who ordered it, waving Monroe over to the counter.

“I’ll handle it. Cover the register.”

Monroe happily obliges. It’s probably better that she deal with the customers, anyway. Murphy isn’t exactly good with talking to people. It’s amazing that he’s kept his job at all.

“Hey,” Murphy says, standing at Bellamy’s table. Bellamy doesn’t stir, so Murphy raises his voice. “Dude, you can’t sleep here.” Bellamy doesn’t move a muscle. Bellamy’s face is peaceful, his breathing even, and Murphy might find it cute if he weren’t so bitter. Murphy prods at Bellamy’s shoulder, and he stirs to life, blinking blearily.

Waking to Murphy’s sharp eyed glare isn’t something Bellamy would call pleasant. He sits up abruptly and glances around. Murphy stands stock still, arms crossed, and frowns at the rumpled looking man in front of him.

“Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean to,” Bellamy apologizes, straightening his back.

“Yeah, don’t let it happen again. It isn’t good for business,” Murphy grumbles, returning to the counter.

-

The next day, Bellamy orders another red eye. Murphy gives a tiny smirk at that, and Bellamy is dumbfounded. It isn’t quite a smile, but it’s the most emotion Bellamy has ever seen the barista display.

“Don’t want to crash today,” Bellamy says, hoping to get Murphy to smirk again. He does.

“It’s a bit ironic, you know? Sleeping in a coffee shop.”

“I know,” Bellamy says, grinning. Murphy likes his smile, but doesn’t even admit it to himself.

-

Bellamy makes it a habit of staying late in the cafe. And by late, he doesn’t mean mid afternoon or even dusk. He means right up until 10:00 pm when the cafe closes. Bellamy remains at his corner table all day, sometimes ordering four or five coffees over the course of the afternoon. He buys the sandwiches they offer at lunch time, and is quite fond of the pastries Monroe makes.

Bellamy likes the cafe, even if Murphy still scowls at him sometimes.

Murphy doesn’t understand why he spends so much time in the tiny shop. Some days he waits for an explanation, but one is never offered.

Bellamy writes, and Murphy watches, and it’s a routine both are content with.

-

It’s 11:12 pm on a Tuesday when Murphy finds himself back at Bellamy’s table. Bellamy isn’t sleeping this time. He is typing briskly on his keyboard, fingers flying, bottom lip pinched between his teeth. Murphy waits for Bellamy to notice him, less angry than before.

“Hey, Harvard boy,” Murphy calls finally, once it’s clear that Bellamy isn’t going to notice him without help.

Bellamy glances once to Murphy, before double taking and pulling out his earbuds. Murphy is wearing a tight black v-neck, and as worried Bellamy is that he’s about to be yelled at for something, he has to admit Murphy would look good while doing it.

“What’s up?” Bellamy asks, a bit sheepishly. Murphy smiles then, and Bellamy’s eyes widen.

“Looked at a clock recently?” Murphy asks, and Bellamy’s eyes dart to the analog clock on the wall near the counter. His mouth drops open at the sight of the time, and he glances at the numbers on his laptop just to assure himself that he hadn’t misread.

“Shit, fuck, I’m so sorry,” Bellamy says, closing his laptop frantically and shoving it in his bag. “I just got carried away. I’m really sorry. You should have kicked me out an hour ago.”

Murphy shrugs, and follows Bellamy toward the door, grabbing his own bag from the counter and swinging it over his shoulder. “Wasn’t a big deal. I just started cleaning up and figured you’d notice eventually and leave. But I guess not.”

Bellamy laughs, stepping out of the cafe and into the cool air. Murphy busies himself with locking up, and Bellamy waits. “I had a stroke of inspiration, man. When I have those, I’m hard pressed to notice anything.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Murphy says. He isn’t smiling anymore, but he still doesn’t seem angry.

“Thanks for not yelling at me,” Bellamy says timidly. Murphy takes off his beanie and run his fingers through his hair, before returning it to his head.

“I’m not the yelling type,” Murphy shrugs. “What did you mean by stroke of inspiration?”

“Oh,” Bellamy says, awestruck that Murphy is asking a question at all. “Well, I overheard some girl talking about her mom needing a bone marrow transplant, and I just, I don’t know, I kind of thought of a plot arc that would fit well in my story.”

“Story?” Murphy raises and eyebrow. They’re still standing outside of the cafe, cars passing by languidly in the calm evening. “Are you writing a book?”

“Yeah,” Bellamy scratches his nose. “It’s a sci-fi.”

“Wow,” Murphy says, though he doesn’t sound that impressed. Bellamy is beginning to wonder if maybe he isn’t really apathetic, he just comes across that way. “That’s pretty cool. You should tell me about it sometime.”

“Thanks,” Bellamy beams. “I will.”

“Do you need a ride, or anything?” Murphy offers, digging in his pocket for his car keys.

“No, I live right there,” Bellamy says, pointing to the apartments across from the cafe. Murphy lets out a low whistle. He knows about those apartments, they are far from cheap. “Thanks though.”

“Anytime, man,” Murphy calls, walking toward his car. “See you tomorrow.”

Bellamy calls back his own goodbye, and hikes his bag higher on his shoulder. As he crosses the street, he thinks about the kindness the barista had shown, and feels warm.

-

The next night, when the clock reaches 10:00 pm, Bellamy leaves his table and leans against the counter. Murphy is washing it down with a worn rag, and looks at him curiously. Bellamy has an easy grin on his face, and Murphy is a bit taken by how stunning he really is.

“Figured I could make last night up to you and help you clean up,” Bellamy explains. Murphy straightens up and gives him a once over, his gray eyes calculating. Bellamy is wearing his Harvard hoodie again, and Murphy is suspicious that it has never been washed.

“I hope you aren’t under the impression that I am the type to turn down an offer like that,” Murphy says, tossing him the rag. “Because I’m not.”

“Good,” Bellamy laughs, and finishes wiping down the counter. Murphy steps aside to begin emptying and rinsing the machines.

“So, Harvard, huh?” Murphy asks, and Bellamy glances to his chest before shrugging.

“My sister bought it for me,” Bellamy explains. “It’s a bit of a joke, actually.”

“Oh yeah?” Murphy asks, moving passed Bellamy to the espresso machine. They brush shoulders. Neither says a word about it.

“Yeah, I mean, she was admitted there at seventeen. So, I guess I’ve always been a bit jealous.”

“Your sister got into Harvard at _seventeen_?” Murphy repeats, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah, she’s a genius, really. She’s going into criminal justice.”

“That’s impressive.”

“We Blakes _are_ impressive.”

“Oh, whatever,” Murphy snorts, though he figures it’s probably true.

The pair finish cleaning, and part ways on the empty street as they had the night before. Bellamy thinks he could get used to this, get used to saying goodnight to Murphy beneath the streetlamp, wanting to follow him home but knowing he can never ask. Bellamy is content with crooked, coffee smiles and Murphy’s smirk, half scowl half sunshine. Bellamy is content with this friendship, tentative and glowing.

Fate, of course, is never content with contentment.

-

When Bellamy strides into Northside Cafe the following morning, the counter is suspiciously absent of pale tattooed arms and gray beanies. Instead, Monroe stands at the register, speaking to a dark haired girl and stirring a paper cup. Bellamy hesitates at the door, reading the date on his phone just to make sure he hadn’t forgotten what day it was.

But his phone reads Wednesday, and Murphy always worked Wednesdays. In fact, Murphy worked every day except for Sundays, and Bellamy never came in on Sundays because while Monroe was nice, she wasn’t Murphy, and the cafe didn’t feel the same without him.

Bellamy considers leaving, but Monroe has already spotted him, and she is smiling at him kindly. Sheepishly, Bellamy steps to the counter, bothered by Murphy’s absence.

“Is Murphy out today?” Bellamy asks, and that calls a laugh out of the red head.

“He is, and I’m sure he’d be flattered that you asked about him before even ordering your coffee,” Monroe teases. Bellamy catches a hint of nervousness in her voice though, a tightness in her words. Worry flutters in Bellamy’s throat.

“Oh, right. Um, 16 oz Americano with cream, please.” The words feel odd in Bellamy’s mouth. It has been ages since he’d actually had to recite his order, Murphy always had it ready for him.

Monroe smiles, and turns to fix his drink. Bellamy shuffles his feet and waits. The words spill out of his mouth before he can stop himself, and he chastises himself for it because he shouldn’t be worried, really, people take days off all the time.

“Is he okay?”

“He’s, umm…” Monroe hesitates, taking Bellamy’s debit card. “Well, yes. _He_ is, technically. His mom died, though.”

“Oh,” Bellamy says, For a writer, he is particularly bad at finding the right words.

“He didn’t say much about it when I talked to him, but then again, I didn’t ask. You know how Murphy is, he doesn’t offer anything up. I hope he’s okay though,” Monroe continues.

“Yeah, yeah me too,” Bellamy chokes out. “Do you, uh, think you could give me his number?”

“You don’t already have it?” Monroe asks, but she is pulling her phone out of the pocket of her jeans. Bellamy shakes his head.

At his table, Bellamy doesn’t take out his laptop. Instead he holds his phone in nervous hands, fingers hovering over letters he can’t seem to form into anything meaningful. Finally, Bellamy let’s out a frustrated sigh, and sends his message.

**[10:46 a.m.] Hey it’s Bellamy, I hope you don’t mind that Monroe gave me your number. I heard about your mom, and just wanted to say I’m sorry.**

_[10:50 a.m.] Waiting until I’m off duty to ask for my number, huh? Sneaky, Blake. But thank you._

**[10:51 a.m.] You’re welcome. Is there anything I can do?**

_[10:53 a.m.] Nope, I’m good. Thanks. I’ll be back to work tomorrow._

**[10:53 a.m.] Tomorrow? When’s the funeral?**

_[10:55 a.m.] Funeral is today?? That’s why I’m off work???_

**[10:57 a.m.] It’s today??! When did she die?**

**[10:57 a.m.] That was an insensitive question. I’m sorry.**

_[10:59 a.m.] Haha don’t be sorry. She died on Sunday. She was in the hospital a lot longer than that, though._

**[11:03 a.m.] Oh, that sucks. I’m really sorry for your loss.**

_[11:07 a.m.] Thanks, but really, not a big deal. We weren’t close._

**[11:07 a.m.] That’s your mom though. Still hard.**

_[11:07 a.m.] Look, Bellamy, I appreciate your concern, but you can’t try and tell me what I’m feeling. I’m sure you and your mom are all close and shit, but my family isn’t like that. This whole thing is just a hassle, and I’m dealing with it. Thanks, but no thanks._

**[11:10 a.m.] I didn’t mean to overstep my bounds. I apologize.**

_[11:10 a.m.] Whatever. Enjoy your americano._

Bellamy most certainly does not enjoy his Americano. In fact, he despises it. Shortly after Murphy’s last text, Bellamy stands from his table and gathers his things. He makes his way back to his appartment, head hung and heart in his throat.

Murphy isn’t his friend, he is his barista. Murphy might know about Bellamy’s life and thoughts and family, but Bellamy hardly knows a thing about Murphy. It is likely to stay that way.

Bellamy doesn’t write that day.

-

Bellamy doesn’t write the next day either. He drinks instant coffee in his own kitchen, and sleeps through lunch, and if Murphy is in the cafe like he said he’d be, Bellamy doesn’t know it.

-

On Friday, Bellamy forces himself to cross the street. He tells himself he is being idiotic, that he goes to Northside Cafe for the coffee anyway, not the barista. He tells himself that he and Murphy could be friends or strangers and it wouldn’t make a difference to him either way.

Then, he tells himself he’s lying.

When he sees Murphy leant against the counter, beanie slouched on his head, phone clutched in tattooed fingers as he scrolls through it in boredom, Bellamy knows there’s no other cafe in the world quite like this. Murphy looks up at the sound of the door, and while what spreads across his face isn’t quite a smile, it’s something akin. Bellamy gapes at him for a moment, before stepping up to the register.

“I’ll have you know, I made your Americano without thinking about it yesterday. Had to drink it myself since you never showed up,” Murphy says as he begins pouring the steaming coffee, watching Bellamy over the counter.

“Yeah, uh, sorry,” Bellamy says, running his fingers through his hair in agitation. Murphy tracks the movement with stony eyes, before cracking a tiny smile.

“I’m not mad at you, you know?” Murphy says, eyes focused on the cup in his hands. He can see Bellamy stiffen in his peripheral vision, though, and smiles wider.

“What?” Bellamy gapes.

“God, you’re weird,” Murphy says, taking the debit card from Bellamy’s hand and swiping it himself when Bellamy remains frozen. “You don’t have to look so hesitant. I’m not angry. In fact, I was a little disappointed not to see you yesterday.”

“Disappointed?” Bellamy asks, but his demeanor has changed. He is no longer staring blankly at the barista, instead his gaze is curious and just a bit knowing. “In that case, maybe we could make up for lost time? When do you go to lunch?”

“Twelve,” Murphy answers without missing a beat. He pulls back his lips, letting his grin reveal his narrow teeth. Bellamy grins back, and clutches his coffee in his hands. They don’t say anything else, Bellamy just nods once, and Murphy glances toward the door at the sound of it opening.

From his seat, Bellamy watches Murphy mix his coffees. And from the counter, Murphy watches Bellamy just as often.

-

At twelve they close up the cafe and get lunch at the sandwich shop down the street. Murphy doesn’t start the conversation, so Bellamy does it for him. He launches into detail about his character in the novel, who he based on his personal friend Clarke. He talks about her role in the story, and Clarke’s influences on the characters, and all the while Murphy wears his crooked half smirk and walks with his hands in his pockets.

At the table they sit across from each other, and Murphy licks a spot of mustard from his lips and says, “So, do you always base characters on people you know?”

“Do I… what?” Bellamy says, taken aback because Murphy hasn’t said much since they left the cafe.

“Well, there’s this Clarke girl, and there was that time with the bone marrow stuff. Just curious.”

“Not all of them. Some of them. I don’t really know, to be honest,” Bellamy says, sipping his coke. “I feel like as an author it’s hard not to base characters on people you know. Otherwise, they’d be shitty characters.”

“Know this from experience?” Murphy’s gaze is always so cold, and calculating. It used to make Bellamy feel small. Now he just finds it dashing.

“Well, I’m on my seventh book. I’ve learned a thing or two.”

“A thing or two,” Murphy repeats, thinking. His expression changes suddenly to something devious. “Ever write a character after me?”

Bellamy chokes on his soda, and Murphy explodes into laughter. He knows the answer before Bellamy manages to sputter out, “Um, yeah, kind of?”

“You can’t leave it at that.”

“Well, uh, it’s not really _based_ on you. Just, kind of looks like you, I guess. _Kind of_.”

“Uh huh,” Murphy nods. “And so now are you going to tell me why you’re so embarrassed about this?”

“I’m not _embarrassed_ , I just, well, you’re kind of a bad guy.”

“ _Really_?” Murphy says, leaning forward eagerly.

“Not like the main villain or anything. Just kind of a dick.”

“I’m glad I mean so much to you.”

“It’s nothing personal,” Bellamy chuckles. “It’s just, when we first met you were kind of, I don’t know, cold.”

“Don’t worry, you’re not the first person to tell me that,” Murphy assures. Bellamy chews his sandwich and considers a moment, unsure of how to phrase his next sentence.

“You never smiled.”

Murphy quirks an eyebrow. Even now, his face is apathetic. Only his eyes show interest.

“Seriously, for like the first month I came to the cafe I wasn’t sure you knew how to.”

“I know how to smile,” Murphy says, and he certainly isn’t lying. His lips stretch across his teeth as he speaks, and Bellamy grins too.

“I know that now,” Bellamy says warmly. “And, I mean, your character isn’t _that_ bad. Kind of a badass, really.”

“Hmm,” Murphy hums, chewing his sandwich and watching Bellamy carefully. “I can live with being kind of a badass.”

“Good,” Bellamy says, and he means it. This is good, very good. He feels comfortable seated across from Murphy, like he was meant to be there.

“Yeah, good,” Murphy agrees. He means it, too.

-

The following week Bellamy finds himself caught completely off guard by Murphy asking, “So, when you designed a character after me, was it because you thought I was attractive?”

“What?” Bellamy sputters. The cafe is closed, and Murphy is wiping down the counters, as usual. Bellamy is leaning backwards against the pastry case, and their elbows brush when Murphy reaches for the bottle of Windex.

“Well you obviously didn’t think I was nice, so was it because I’m cute?”

“You sound pretty certain that you’re cute,” Bellamy says in lieu of a proper answer, because he can’t bring himself to say, ‘ _I don’t just think you’re cute, I think you’re the fucking sun._ ’

“Mmm,” Murphy hums with a nod, and winks at Bellamy playfully. Bellamy shrugs one shoulder.

“Eh, I guess so.”

“You know so,” Murphy snorts, and continues cleaning. They don’t talk about it again.

-

“Are you going to ask about the funeral?” Murphy asks the following morning, passing Bellamy his Americano.

“Um, no, didn’t plan on it,” Bellamy says distractedly, staring at the chocolate croissant in the display case.

“Good,” Murphy says, and Bellamy wonders why he brought it up at all. “Did you want that croissant or not?”

“Nah, I’m good,” Bellamy lies, and Murphy passes it to him anyway, waving away Bellamy’s debit card. Bellamy beams, and Murphy scowls, and everything feels completely normal.

-

The fortieth coffee Bellamy orders has the words, “ _You should ask me to dinner_ ,” scrawled on the side in felt tipped pen. Bellamy blushes, but obeys. They go for Italian food at the place around the block from the cafe. Bellamy pays, and Murphy holds his hand when they walk back to Northside, where Murphy’s car is parked.

They talk about Octavia and Bellamy’s book and argue about quad shots. Murphy even mentions his family (only his cousin, but that’s enough for Bellamy), and Bellamy soaks it all in, feeling desperate and content all at once.

-

They first kiss after closing on a Tuesday night.

Bellamy is a writer at heart. He loves poetry and art and romanticism, and as such, he would like to say their first kiss was a product of a clever seduction and a tempting promise, but really it was because Bellamy blurts out, “Can I kiss you?”

There are no fireworks or trembling lips. Just tongues and teeth and warm, slick lips and Bellamy is content with that.

-

The fifty eighth coffee Bellamy orders in Northside Cafe is a 16 oz Americano with cream, but no sugar. The fifty ninth coffee he orders is also an Americano, just like the fifty seventh was, and just like all the rest will be.

Unless, of course, he favors a red eye that morning.

Bellamy is a person of habit, Murphy is as well. They are content with the same coffees every day, pleased with the smooth interior of the cafe and the muffled yet familiar sounds of the cars on the street. They are content with their occasional lunch dates, and on a few memorable nights, dinners at the Italian place next door. Content with flirty messages scrawled on paper cups, and kisses after the cafe closes.

Bellamy and Murphy are people of habit, and somehow, their habits grew to encompass each other as well. Both are content with this.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all enjoyed! 
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr!](http://red-0ak-tree.tumblr.com/)


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